


I Don’t Even Know My Identity, So How Can I Know If This Is Real?

by Pheasant



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, And I have this whole universe planned, Angst, Angsty Davesprite is my jam, Bro Strider was not prepared for this, Davesprite needs a hug, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Human Davesprite, Identity Issues, Implied/References Kidnapping, Kidnapping, No Sex, Referenced amputation, Rescue, Sadstuck, So many identity issues, Vomiting, i guess, kind of, so stay tuned?, this will probably become a series, vent fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 16:09:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15343545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pheasant/pseuds/Pheasant
Summary: Your name is Des.You are seventeen.You are in the dark, awake and alone while pain races through your body like cars in a NASCAR race.You are hallucinating.Probably.You've had a hard time telling, as of late.





	I Don’t Even Know My Identity, So How Can I Know If This Is Real?

You wake up in the dark and in pain. This not unusual for you. You have woken up like this seven times in a row and it is unlikely to stop. You are in a different room than before, if the smooth leather caressing your aching stump of a limb was any indication. The room before this was one of cold lab tables and warm air that  _stung_. The room before that was barren of everything but that machine that made you vomit and your head scream while your hands shake. The room before that was different as well, but you can’t recall much of it. You suspect that they change your location daily to test your acceptance of new environments.

You just wish they would leave you alone.

You lie back on the smooth leather and your head finds some sort of head or armrest which you use as a pillow. From this, you gather that you are on a couch of some sort, and the strange feeling around your stump of a limb means that someone has bandaged you. That's one question out of the way. Your eyes fall closed and you remember everything you can about your situation.

Your name is Des. (That is not the name they call you by.)

You are male. (That, at least, has never changed.)

You are seventeen. (At least, you should be.)

You did not always live here. ( _You aren’t supposed to think about that!_ )

You are not entirely human. (You wish you’d never found the birds.)

You have five limbs. (You used to have six.)

You used to have four. ( _What the hell are you doing?_ )

You had a life before this. ( _Stop thinking about it!_ )

You had an older brother and he loved you. ( _Oh god, shut up!_ )

He replaced you. Another kid has your name and he never thinks about you. You saw it, once. Your replacement. ( _Shut up shut up shut up shutup **shutupSHUTUP** -_)

In a flurry of motion, you shove yourself off the couch and onto the carpeted floor below. Acid and the remains of whatever fleeting memory you had last eaten vault up your throat and onto your knees in a huge meaty waterfall. You don’t know where the voice in your head came from, the one that gives you advice and tells you what not to think about it, but it never goes well when you try to disobey it.

But you resisted it longer this time, so you don’t have time to dwell on your misery.

What you should be dwelling on are the footsteps pounding down the hall and the burning stream of light that hits your face as soon as you manage to stand upright. You should be focusing on the way no one moved an obstacle from blocking the door, nor did someone undo a lock. The door just swung open, leaving you to cringe at the sudden light and throw your hands over your eyes. Thank God your shades were still on, or the sudden blindness would have been met with even more pain than you already had to deal with.

Two strong arms wrap around you before you can properly adjust to the new surroundings. Your wing fluffs in objection, but you don’t move otherwise. A familiar scent hits your nose, a scent of cigarette smoke and day old pizza and Doritos that you can’t stop from falling onto your shirt even when you  _Eat over the bag, Dave_ , and you relax. You’re hallucinating, a fact you know because Bro has never had a leather couch and he never will, as well as the fact the entire place reeks of alcohol and your Bro hasn’t touched a drop since the day he brought you home.  _All of this is fake_.

You relax into not-Bro’s arms, anyway.

“Shh, Dave,” Not-Bro croons in your ear. “You’re safe now. We got you. Everything is going to be okay.” 

Has he ever sounded so gentle? So... emotive? Of course not. You’re hallucinating.

“I’m- You shouldn’t- Bro-” You struggle to form a sentence that expresses what you want to say and settle for hiding your face in his shoulder. 

Not-Bro’s breath catches, for a reason that you can’t even begin to fathom. As you wait for him to speak again, or for the hallucination to fade so you can suffer in peace, his hand drops to rub your back. Without so much as a word or a movement from you, his hand avoids your wings, both the one you lost and the one you had managed to hold on to. A hesitant smile blooms in the hiding place between your face and Not-Bro’s shoulder. In your head, your Bro can do no wrong. 

A set of footsteps stop at the edge of the doorway and your smile falls.

“What’s going on, Bro? Is the other me okay?” It’s Dave.

Dave.  **The real Dave.**  Dave Elizabeth strider, who just turned fourteen ( _not seventeen, how could you have fooled yourself, you **copy**_ ) and has three good friends. It doesn’t matter if you remember them, they aren’t your Jade and John. Hell, that’s not even your Rose. Rose died.

Rose is  **dead**  and she died for her replacement. She died for the  _“real” Rose_  that never loved you, never called you her brother and never took your shades off to see the scared boy inside and tell him everything is going to be alright.  She died for a girl who doesn’t know what it feels like to be stuck in a new place and have your only family believe that you’re dead. She died for a girl who still thinks that ripping apart the brains of people who don’t want it is  **fun** , not a tool to get a leg up in the world. She died imparting knowledge that you don’t even think she  **understood**.

You want her back. You want  ** _your Rose_**.

You want everyone. You want  _Dirk_ , the boy who looks so much like Bro and disappeared one day without a trace. You want **_Your Jane_** , who giggles like John and listened to all your stories about the dead boy that followed the spider too far into her web. You want  _ **Your Jake**_  and  _ **Your**_ _ **Jade**  _and  _ **Your**_ _ **John**_ , and everyone and anyone that ever made you feel safe.

“ _I want to go home._ ”

You’re passed out before Bro can shoo the Real Dave away and move you back onto the couch.

When you wake up and the  **real Rose**  is sitting on a chair beside you, waiting to ask you a million questions, you decide that you don’t know the difference between hallucination and reality anymore.

It probably doesn't even matter, given that you'll be suffering either way.


End file.
